DEAD IN HER CARRIAGE.
Nick sat down to study the package Mrs. Constant had given him, having
some knowledge of the persons the package was supposed to tell about.
He knew Albert Constant had been a man of no occupation in life, living
on his income; that his family was wealthy, and about the most exclusive
in the city.
That his marriage to Blanche had been violently opposed by it, not alone
because she was an actress, but because she was of that rank of life
which his family believed was much below his own.
He also knew that Albert Constant had quarreled with his family because
of this marriage, and as a consequence had withdrawn from society.
Of Eric Masson he knew less. That he moved in the same social circle as
that in which the Constants were leaders he did know, and that he was
not a popular member of it.
He also knew that he was a broker in Wall Street, and, if there were not
charges of sharp practice against him, there were mutterings of them,
while it was whispered that at poker with his friends he won too
steadily and too heavily.
There were scandals also rumored about as to his private life, all of
which, however, had not as yet affected his standing in the social
world.
The papers of the package were not easy of understanding, nor did they
tell a complete story.
Among them were letters from Masson to Albert Constant and copies of
replies from Constant to the same. But the package was principally made
up of memoranda in the handwriting of Constant, which was disjointed and
seemed to be mere guides for the memory of Constant to be used at some
future time.
It all indicated, however, as Mrs. Constant had said, that at some prior
time Masson had done Constant an injury, and that, though Masson denied
it, Constant was gathering the proof of that injury.
Nick spent the evening over the package, and at bed-time laid it away
with a dissatisfied feeling that it did not confirm the charges Mrs.
Constant had made.
The next morning, on coming down to the breakfast table, he found Edith
sitting horror-stricken over the newspaper.
In answer to his anxious inquiry, his wife extended to him the
newspaper, pointing to an article, the mere glance at which informed him
that Mrs. Constant had been killed in her carriage the night previous.
Reading the account attentively, Nick found that it was a murder, but by
whom it was not even suggested.
Beyond the fact that when the driver arrived at the destination he had
been given, he discovered that the person he had driven was dead within
the carriage, and that the surgeon, on being called, had quickly
discovered that death was the result of a bullet from a small revolver
entering the brain immediately back of the left ear. None of the
circumstances were given.
Comparing the time, Nick concluded that the murder must have been
committed between thirty minutes and an hour after she had driven up to
his door to give him the package of papers over which he had spent the
time just prior to going to his bed the night before.
The account was not informing, and was but little more than mere
announcement of the discovery of the murder, except that it told who the
dead woman was and who her husband had been.
Edith was much distressed over the fact that death should have come in
such shocking form to her friend, and so shortly after her old
associations had been renewed.
Nick devoted some time to soothing and calming Edith, and then sat down
to his breakfast, determining that as soon as it was over he would begin
an investigation.
But before his breakfast was over he received another shock, though of a
different kind.
A note was brought him, evidently written that morning, from Mrs. Albert
Constant, asking him to call upon her at once to consult with her on the
new horror that had come into her life.
He was astounded. He picked up the paper again to read the article
telling of Mrs. Albert Constant’s murder. There was no mistake. He had
read aright.
It was distinctly stated that the murdered woman was the widow of the
late Mr. Albert Constant, and even the poisoning of her dogs at the dog
show was talked of. And yet he held in his hand, written that morning, a
letter from the woman the paper said had been murdered in her carriage
the night before.
“It is incomprehensible, Edith,” he said. “There can be no doubt about
this letter, and it speaks of a new horror.”
“Perhaps,” said Edith, “she was not killed, but only wounded.”
“The newspaper account particularly says that the ball entered the brain
behind the ear,” said Nick. “Any one receiving such a wound as that
could not write a letter within twelve hours, if she ever could. No; it
is not to be accounted for on that ground. I fear this letter was
written prior to her murder, for early delivery this morning, on the
discovery of some new happening like that of the poisoning of her dogs.”
He arose from the breakfast table, saying:
“I shall go to her home at once and try to reconcile what now seems to
be a mystery.”
He went out of the house at once, and to the residence of Mrs. Constant,
which was in the lower part of West End Avenue.
Arriving, there were unmistakable evidences of a tragedy within the
house.
In front of it, on the pavement, were a number of people gazing with
idle curiosity at the front of the house.
Drawn up at the curbing was the undertaker’s wagon, sure testimony that
some one within the house was dead.
As Nick mounted the steps, the door opened and the coroner came forth.
“Ah, Mr. Carter,” said that official, “you are expected. I have done all
that I can do here at present. I presume you will begin an
investigation. I hope that you will.
“At present it is a dense mystery. I cannot give you a single point. All
that we know is that the woman was killed somewhere between nine and
half-past nine last night; that she was shot in the back of the head,
and that death followed immediately. But who shot her we have no more
idea after working all night than we had in the beginning.”
“What are the circumstances?” asked Nick.
“Very meager,” promptly responded the coroner. “The lady came from a
dressmaker’s establishment, and before entering her carriage told her
driver to drive directly home to this place.
“As soon as he heard the door close, he drove off, making but one stop
on his way here, and that at Fifty-eighth Street, where his carriage was
blocked for a minute or two.
“Arriving here, as the lady did not get out, he got down from his box
and opened the door, to find her unconscious. He gave the alarm; the
woman was carried into her home, and a doctor soon coming pronounced her
dead.”
“No one was known to have been in the carriage with her?” asked Nick.
“No. That is the great mystery. I was disposed at first to look upon it
as suicide. I have not abandoned that idea entirely yet, though all the
physicians and surgeons who have examined the body say it is not
probable.
“However, the body lies in the parlor. Go and look at it, and after you
have made your first investigation, I shall be obliged if you will come
and talk with me about it.”
The coroner stepped back and opened the door for Nick to pass through,
closing the door after him and going his way.
Nick passed into the parlor, and there found Mrs. Constant lying in the
box the undertaker had provided.
He stood looking down upon her face, thinking that death had brought its
changes and sharpened peculiarities of features that he had not noticed
in life.
While he looked, the undertaker came from a rear room, looking at him
inquiringly. Nick said, quietly:
“I am Mr. Carter, the detective.”
“Oh, yes; Mrs. Constant is expecting you. Indeed, she is very anxious to
see you.”
Nick looked up in great surprise, saying:
“Mrs. Constant?”
He pointed to the body lying within the box.
The undertaker smiled in a melancholy way, and said:
“That is what has puzzled and confused people so. But let me take you to
Mrs. Constant. She has been asking every minute if you have come.”
Nick followed the undertaker up the stairs to the door of a room in the
front of the house, at which the undertaker rapped lightly.
A maidservant opened the door, and when the undertaker said that Mr.
Carter was there, flung it wide open, saying:
“Come, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Constant will be glad to see you.”
As Nick stepped into the room, the maidservant spoke to a lady sitting
in the corner, telling her that Mr. Carter was there.
The lady arose immediately, and advanced to meet Nick.
At once Nick saw that she was Mrs. Constant in the life. Her face showed
the distress she was suffering, for it was pale and haggard, and its
lines deeply marked.
The resemblance between the woman before him and the one lying still in
death in the room below was astonishing.
Mrs. Constant took Nick’s hand, attempting to speak, but broke into
uncontrollable sobs.
However, she controlled herself in a few minutes, and said:
“This is the end, Mr. Carter. It is the last. It can go no further.”
“I cannot understand it,” said Nick. “The paper said it was you who was
killed.”
“I wish it was myself who had been killed,” cried Mrs. Constant. “It was
my twin sister, Ethel. But it was I he intended to kill.”
The word twin sister explained everything that had bewildered him, as in
a flash.
“I did not know that you had a twin sister,” said Nick.
“Yes, I had,” said Mrs. Constant, sadly. “She came to live with me a
week ago. She was so happy to come, and this is the end. She died for
me.”
“Prior to her coming to live with you,” asked Nick, “where did she
live?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Had she spent much time in New York with you?”
“Not much time,” replied Mrs. Constant. “Only for short visits at long
intervals.”
“Did she have many acquaintances in this city?”
Mrs. Constant, as in a flash, saw the end toward which Nick’s questions
were tending, and said, hurriedly and impatiently:
“Waste no time on that, Mr. Carter. Ethel had no acquaintances in New
York, except a very few that she had made within the past week. She was
killed because the one who killed her thought it was I who was in the
carriage.”
“I know that you think so,” said Nick. “But I was trying to explore the
possibility of the other view.”
“It is wasted time, Mr. Carter. Ethel knew no one in New York, nor had
relations with any one who would do such a thing.”
“Could any one have followed her from Philadelphia?”
“No,” said Mrs. Constant, earnestly. “Ethel was a good girl; she had no
secrets apart from me, and no man had entered into her life in any way.
She lived a very quiet life at home, and if there had been any love
affair of hers or any one persecuting her, I should have known it. My
secrets were hers and hers were mine.”
“It was not you, then,” asked Nick, “who came to me with that package
last night?”
“No. I was detained at home by a caller, and as Ethel was going over to
a dressmaker’s in Sixth Avenue, I asked her to take that package to you
first.”
“What time did she leave here to go?”
“It must have been nearly eight o’clock. We were going out last evening,
but the dress Ethel was to wear had not been sent home as promised, and
Ethel wanted to go for it.”
“When she gave me that package,” said Nick, “she said she was much
hurried. But all the time I thought it was you.”
“Yes, the resemblance between us was so great that all our lives we have
been mistaken for each other, even by intimate friends. This resemblance
is the cause of the announcement in the papers this morning that it was
I who had been killed.”
“There was no one in the carriage with her when I saw her,” said Nick.
“And no one when the carriage arrived home,” replied Mrs. Constant. “But
a man did get into that carriage, supposing I was in it, and killed her.
I know who it was, and so do you.”
Nick raised his hand, warningly, and said:
“Mention no names, Mrs. Constant. Charge no one with so awful a deed.
Trust to me. I will investigate that line to the end, but let your
suspicions be unsaid, or, if you must talk of them, talk only to me.”
Mrs. Constant first turned impatiently away, but as impulsively turned
back and placed her hand in Nick’s, saying:
“You are Edith’s husband as well. I will trust everything to you.”
“That is good,” said Nick. “Now a practical question. The driver of that
coach, who was he?”
“The same as my own coachman. I have an arrangement with a livery stable
near by, by which I have the same carriage, horses and driver by the
month. The carriage is used by no one but me, and the coachman drives
nobody but me.”
Securing the address of this livery stable and the name of the driver,
Nick hurried to the stable, telling Mrs. Constant that he would return
soon.
He found the driver without difficulty, and from him learned the course
taken by Ethel Romney and the places she had called at.
The story he told was a straight one.
He had been summoned shortly before eight o’clock, and had turned out so
quickly that he was at the Constant residence a few minutes before eight
o’clock.
He had first driven Miss Romney to the dressmaker’s, in Sixth Avenue,
where she had got out. She was gone but a few minutes, and, coming out,
said that she would have to return to that place. Then she had
instructed him to drive to Mr. Carter’s house, where she had seen Mr.
Carter without getting out of the coach.
After that she had driven back again to the dressmaker’s, where she
remained possibly twenty minutes, and, coming from there, she had seemed
quite vexed.
She told him to drive directly home, and he had followed Sixth Avenue,
intending to go up by way of Fifty-ninth Street.
She had made no stop on the way thither, and the carriage had not
stopped except for a minute or two at Fifty-eighth Street, where the way
had been blocked.
Arriving in front of the Constant residence, as she made no effort to
get out, he had got down to see what the matter was.
Then he thought she had fainted, and, making an outcry, people had come
from the house. They had carried her in, and he had driven off to the
stable.
The man, whose name was Rawson, was positive that no man talked to Miss
Romney, except Nick himself, during the ride. He was positive that no
one had entered the coach with Miss Romney at any time.
“Are you certain,” asked Nick, “that while you were standing in front of
the dressmaker’s the second time that some one did not enter the coach?”
The man replied that he had seen no one attempt to.
“But it is possible, isn’t it,” asked Nick, “that a man might have got
in there and you not know it?”
“It might be, sir,” said Rawson, “but it isn’t likely.”
Nick turned away. The man had evidently given all the information he
had.
He went back to Mrs. Constant, with no light shed on the mystery.